For the first time, I share with you all my extempore, spoken word piece that allowed me to process my personal grief today.

These are words on the horizon that finally managed to flow with my emotions.



The only boy at a women’s march,
like a needle in a haystack,
a flash in the pan.
But he did it.
Out of compulsion,
for an earth’s share of more compassion.
To be first among equals
and in a lop-sided world,
he was society’s eager pupil.

He was a friend,
rebuffing sexism and sailor mouths, learning to say No to a puff of smoke or alcohol.
And he was laughed off indeed. Always the ‘half man’
or possibly a ‘non binary’,
as they learnt to call him,
when the term gripped their skewed radars.

He marched on,
leading the way,
jotting down landmarks for equality on a map of the world.
Learning the alphabets and vowels anew,
transforming boyhood,
to know that time had come,
for men to not just be typecasts of snobbery, class wars,
or sneering, jeering social animals.

It had to be more than a brush stroke or a wielding of the pen
and much more than hyphens on milestones
or more than harking back to warriors and kings,
of pomp and show,
dating back to history of yore.


Man is one half of Woman.
A cross current deluging mindsets, beyond tropes of pots and pans,
Yin and Yang,
Lion and Lamb,
Woman and Man
and this and that.

I stand with him,
watching time and tide turn amid impassioned chants and meaningful words.
And I know I am a man transformed and that to sit idly by is a choice we make.
But to employ actions and words to stir a change within is a life-skill.

That’s when mountains break
and a sea-change swells,
to orchestrate a movement towards righteousness.
I am a man transformed
and stand with him,
my friend and cohort.
Once the only boy at a women’s march,
he now knows the way to make principles count.


NOTE: this poem also appears simultaneously on my Wattpad poetry collection FRONTIERS.    


I am haunted.

The flowers that I plucked from the garden,

to mark some legacies,

have become garlands,

arranged for the beloved,

fallen bird whom I buried,

his face down under the shrubberies,

entranced by his final sleep and an

eternal dream-hour.

And petals drip and drop,

falling into open mouths

as family names leave with the nip in

the air,

far beyond cosmic dilemmas.

I am haunted

because my departed bird has left his


and flown over the tip of the temple,

as I imagine,

uncaged and free among the

evergreens, the river.

In the spot below the dead flowers,

where I buried him,

is where his still wings sleep.


There was a garden there,

some unfinished moulds of potteries

lay in a neat column,

with roses meant to fill their round,

filigreed bodies

and we promised to fill them each

with mud

and practice some gardening of our



I put some dead flowers pressed together,

in cellophane sheets,

take them home,

wash them clean,

to watch them wither and be blown away,

like charred paper;

and then muse with an elegy in my soul,

for their asphyxiated last breaths

before I saw them hence.

For flowers grow out,

for the decorousness of experience,

the euphoria of youth,

for the silence in which we caressed

each other’s bodies with rose petals.

Some grow, shrivel or are inflamed in

electric crematoriums,

with sagging, wrinkled last sighs

and their scents and faint colours

limn bones in the last sounding of the conch.


Flowers are the only ones who make

an appearance,

on tables where Grandma kept them,

to adorn her morning tresses,

to use their fragrance to press

together our spirits buoyed by smell.

On that very table are her spectacles,

little, inconspicuous microscopes

that read between the lines,

to find multiple histories embedded within.

Everything haunts me now,

because flowers carry their scents

from twoscore years before,

hidden in cupboards and strangled by

spines of books nobody reads


It haunts me

because I have left little flowers

everywhere for clues.

The question is,

what messages will I be leaving

behind with them

as discovery is yearned for now?

My flowers make do with that anticipation.


My poem in HINDI is for all my Indian and general readers.

I share my true labour of love with you all, to prove that the multiplicity of languages and voices is indeed a must for all of us.

Read, spread the word and share your thoughts. THANK YOU.

The original Hindi title of this poem translates to LOOK AT HER EYES in English.


This is a poem I wrote spontaneously as a birthday gift for my father on 12th September, 2007, as a teenager. As nostalgia grew and his milestone came visiting again, I decided to share it here. I think God had ordained me to obtain a poetic degree from earliest years.



NOTE: this post simultaneously appears on my WATTPAD poetry collection FRONTIERS too.


This week has been lucky for me. In addition to my essay being published by SCREEN QUEENS, my poem ‘WINDOWS’ has also become a part of BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

It is a poem that is written in memory of my beloved, now deceased maternal grandmother. Do read it, spread the word and share your thoughts.